


Sick

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Illnesses, One Shot, Season/Series 03, Self-Reflection, brief mention of joan/vera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 16:18:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13791441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Ruminating on her Hep C status, Vera faces a difficult decision: who can she trust?





	Sick

**Author's Note:**

> Without a specific episode reference, this fic (in general) focuses on Vera's Hep C status. It's meant to be a self-reflection, presumably leading up to the ill-fated dinner with Joan.

> ' I'm not the kind of sick that you can fix. '
> 
> _Sick_ – Chelsea Wolfe

A broken doll of a woman drags herself into her empty home. In the foyer, she kicks off her heels. They land at an angle.

Clammy sweat beads along her brow and riddles the nape of her neck. A ragged cough sweeps through her. _It’s just the flu,_ she tells herself. Deputy Governor Vera Bennett can no longer swallow that lie anymore.

She’s not okay.

Her palm coasts along the newly applied wallpaper that has replaced Mum's gaudy taste. Her stomach twists into knots. Nausea threatens to cripple her – to cage her to the confinement of her home like a canary awaiting suffocation in a deep, dark mine.

When Vera's eyes snap shut, she's haunted by the Hep C Victoria webpage. How it attempts to soothe with a purple banner that suggests valor rather than pain and resentment.

_What have I done to deserve this?_

Doubled over, she wallows in the midst of her self-loathing. Aching, coltish legs carry her to the bedroom. Akin to a drunkard, she stumbles. How fucking pathetic, how melodramatic.

_Get over yourself, you pitiful wreck._

She swears she hears Rita's shrill inflection – berating her, now, even in death.

Pain riddles her joints. Agony turns into a dull, repetitive throb. These days, she has no appetite. All symptoms that tell of her disease.

Rid of her uniform, she slips into a t-shirt and pajama pants. It's faded, thread-bare, a creature comfort sought after in her loneliness.

Into the bathroom, she wanders.

The lights illuminate her pallid complexion. It’s a place lacking color, as sterile as the medical unit. Revelation makes her want to vomit.

Vera scrutinizes her reflection.

Fatigue drives the lines around her eyes. Dark shadows loom underneath. Again, her stomach clenches. She can’t recall the last time she’s had a proper meal.

Prison changes you.

Tainted blood courses through her veins. Memories of the riot still linger. The nightmares cause her to jolt awake, frightened and panting every witching hour. A small needle’s caused her a world of hurt.

She reflects on the tenderness of her abdomen and the violent bruising that sprawled across her flesh like a disease in itself.

Later down the road, there's an alternative to this: transplant her liver. Her doctor encourages her to stop drinking alcohol, but that's easier said than done when your life's gone topsy turvy.

Vera shakes her head. She dwells on the past. She dwells on the riot. It's a broken, skipping record.

Nails sail across her biceps. She scratches at bare skin. Vera pulls at her hair like a Victorian woman reawakened. A fever eats her alive from the inside out.

Vera tilts her head back, eyes bloodshot and aching. This isn't a call to God.

So, spare the self-loathing, self-pitying _bullshit_.

“It was Gambaro.”

Spoken with conviction, she sheds the feathers of the meek woman she used to be. The facts add up. In mounting frustration, she clenches her jaw.

“She did this to me,”she says to her tired, worn self who looks back with hardened, diamond eyes.

A shadow of her former self, Vera Bennett grips the basin of her sink. She rests her forehead against the cool, clammy ceramic. This isn’t her time to repent.

Her eyes are laden dark circles though there’s no fix for her to pursue. She clears her rapidly tightening throat. The Sword of Damocles hangs over her head.

In limbo, somewhere between the living and the dead, Vera Bennett remains collateral damage. She tugs at the skin beneath her stormy eyes. The lids stretch taut.

“Who am I?” She accosts her reflection.

With a flick of her wrist, she turns on the faucet. She shakes her hands dry. Water droplets spray the mirror. The cool, sinkwater has a bite to it. Is it any different than the rot flowing through her veins?

“I didn’t like the old Vera. So, I changed.”

This is the truth she sells to herself.

With cheapened aspirations, her world loses focus. Prying open the medicine cabinet, Pandora peers into the box. The box opens and closes. The medicine cabinet clicks shut.

She resorts to anti-viral medications. The pace of research impacts the process. Her chances look grim. There’s a finality to this. In her somber state, she feels torn asunder.

For the first time, she'll be taking her prescription.

She stares at the silver tray of uniform pills. This isn’t like feeding Mum a medicinal cocktail.

There is no exit here. There _has_ to be a cure. Vera clings to the ashen remains of her optimism. She bites her lip so hard that it swells.

This is the proposed alternative: a daily pill taken for twelve weeks with minor side-effects.

For those with Hep C genotype 2, the prescription combines two names she can't even pronounce: sofosbuvir and ribavirin. The cocktail has a 93% success rate or so her doctor tells her. Anemia, chronic migraines, fatigue, and insomniac are the price to pay.

Grimacing, she pops open the medicine, freeing it from its silver, foil tomb. She dry throats her salvation. It's bitter and acrid going down, settling in her stomach.

“I should tell her,” she murmurs to herself, fingers flexing over the brim of the sink. Her bottom lip quivers – a tell-tale indicator of the schism that threatens to divide her loyalty.

Restlessness indicates her indecision. She faces a difficult decision. She could disclose this information or confide in the one she trusts.

Alone, she rehearses the conversation.

“Joan," she begins and makes it personal. "There’s something I need to tell you.”

The loaded statement gives her a new case of anxiety. Vera braces for the imaginary, albeit brusque dismissal. She closes her eyes. Yearns for a God-like hand upon her shoulder. Aches for fingers slipping down her foolish, fragile spine. Pines for strong arms to encircle her, to encompass her, to consume her.

_Can I trust her?_

Her heart skips a beat.

_Of course I can._

Joan Ferguson is her mentor, her Guv'na, her barbed wire God. Everything Joan has done is to ensure the smooth operation of Wentworth. Of this, Vera is convinced, but that's the cost of loving too much – isn't it?

Young blood rises.

She feels warmth though it isn't from her fever. Not this time.

Pivoting on heel, her bare feet pad across the tiled, hallowed ground. The side of her palm hits the switch. The lights turn off.

It's decided. Over dinner, she’ll tell Joan.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Furthermore, the entirety of Chelsea Wolfe's song alludes to Vera's twisted relationship with Joan (at least, in my perception). Self-realization dawns with the following, "When you try to blind my eyes, I can see tenfold. It's nothing that my heart can't take."
> 
> I swear I'll send comments/replies soon. There are so many lovely fics out. Kudos to you all.


End file.
